


Headspace

by pokey_jr



Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Body Swap, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-16
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-05-05 23:15:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 20,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14629053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pokey_jr/pseuds/pokey_jr
Summary: Ever wondered what it's like to be forced to live as a big-dicked geriatric alcoholic curmudgeon? Thanks to a lab accident, you're about to find out. You have to take Rick's place, and even worse-- Rick has to take yours.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on two requests I received on tumblr:
> 
> 1) Rick and reader personality swap
> 
> 2) Think you could do a Rick x Reader body swap/freaky friday kind of deal? Another author wrote one, and I would love to see your take on it! Love your work! Thank you!
> 
> It _will_ get to that Explicit rating... don't worry :)

Rick Sanchez is not the man you wanted to find.

As you’re cutting across the Smith family’s driveway, on course for the front door, you spot him standing behind the workbench in his garage-repurposed-as-workshop. He looks up from whatever he’s working on, sees you, and grimaces. You should have just stalked past, continued to your intended destination. You’d been hoping to find Beth, though any of the other family members would have done, really. It’s hard to understand how such a cranky asshole like Rick could have a daughter like Beth, and her nice nuclear family. 

Can’t retreat now. Something in his disdain spurs you to want to confront him. You’re doing the right thing, being neighborly, as you always have with him, despite his rudest efforts to deter you. You square your shoulders and detour into the shade of the garage.

You venture a smile, which he does not return.

“I-i-if you’re here about your dog, I didn’t do it,” he says by way of greeting.

You blink. “I don’t have a dog. I’ve never had a dog.”

He grunts, peers closer at the circuit board in front of him. He adjusts a screw on it, and the box the circuit board is attached starts humming at an alarmingly high pitch.

“Shit.” He undoes whatever change he had made. No dice. The sound gets louder.

You watch with curiosity, and a bit of morbid hope to see him do something wrong. “I stopped by because I have some of your mail—addressed to you and Beth and Jerry. Delivered to me by accident.”

He grabs a beer bottle from amidst the clutter of screwdrivers on the workbench, swigs from it, and through a belch, tells you he doesn’t care. “Bills and shit, right?”

“Uh…” You rifle through the bundle of them you’re holding. “I don’t know? I haven’t opened any. I mean, I wouldn’t—“

The tone crescendos, and the box, a cubic tank full of cables and glowing blue gel, starts vibrating. Rick swears again.

“I’ll just…leave it here and get out of your hair.” You place the letters on the one part of the workbench not covered with miscellaneous wires and tools, and begin to back away.

“G-g-get me the 3/8 wrench,” he barks the order and gestures vaguely behind him to a wall covered with tools, and two red metal chests full of them as well. Some of their drawers are open, presenting you with a confounding array of choices. You obey before you realize what you’re doing. _Why_ and _I’m not your assistant_ cross your mind, along with wondering where his grandson Morty is, and why he isn’t in here.

That, you ask him as you hand him your best guess.

“My grandson? I-I-I got no clue. Why don’t you ask him? Li-eeugh-ttle shit thinks he’s too good to help grandpa with—science. This could change the world. This box here, see, it’s a—it’s a thing, that I invented and it’s amazing!”

“What is it?” You hand him another tool at his terse demand.

“Incubator.”

“What does it do?”

_“Incubates.”_

Peering over his shoulder, you remark, “it doesn’t look like it works yet.”

He rounds on you, snarling, beer and saliva running down his chin. “Yeah and what the hell would you know about it! I-I-I got no—don’t have my Morty. My a-a-assistant. My little buddy. I got you yapping and distracting me and crowding me.” When he turns away again, you wipe his spittle from your face. 

He falls silent for a moment, concentrating, then explains: “it’s an incubator for gromflomite eggs. That goo in it is spinal fluid from Abyssal hatchlings, g- it has telepathic properties, so when the little buggers marinate in it for long enough, they’re born sma-eeurgh- smarter. That’s the theory, anyway.”

Genuinely fascinated, you’re about to ask him more—aside from being a nuisance of a neighbor, what he does in this garage is largely a mystery to you as well as the rest of block—when Jerry enters the garage from the kitchen.

“Rick, have you seen my electric clippers?” Beth’s husband is just as much of a blank to you as her father, though in a different way. Whereas Rick is mad-scientist intriguing, Jerry is a bowl of plain oatmeal, if plain oatmeal could feel selfishly threatened by other, more tasty foods.

“Mhmm.” Rick hunches over his project, intent on soldering a connection on the circuit board. The tank vibrates urgently, the goo inside bubbling and churning. You start to back away slowly, except Rick holds his hand out, snaps ‘copper spool’.

“So? Where are they?” Jerry, you’ve noticed, only ever manages to sound petulant when speaking to his father-in-law.

Rick doesn’t reply, prompting Jerry to huff loudly. “Well?”

“Jesus, Jerry, wo- you see I’m working on something here? Something delicate and highly unstable and waaaaaaay more important than your stupid clippers, which, by the way, are in the bathroom under the sink, where they always are. I replaced them there after using them on my armpit hair and my pubes, so, ya know… enjoy trimming that scraggly nonsense you pretend is a beard. Idiot.”

Jerry’s mouth drops open in shock, he makes an angry, impotent sound, and, seeing Rick’s back to him, advances with his fist raised. It strikes you as a coward’s approach, and the only one Jerry is capable of. Rick catches him before he does anything, abandoning his work so he can wave the hot soldering iron in Jerry’s face.

“Really? Th-that’s all you got, _Jerry?_ Come at me broh, let’s go. You wanna throw down we can throw down–”

The lapse in attention proves disastrous. The next few moments happen, from your perspective, in slow motion. Without Rick’s careful focus on the circuit board, the wires start sparking. Jerry stumbles backward, falling on his ass, scrambles until he bumps the metal shelves on the opposite wall. A few boxes fall on him, though that’s the least of your worries, as Rick drops the hot soldering iron, cursing and reaching to connect the tank to auxiliary power.

He doesn’t make it; _CRITICAL FAILURE_ flashes on the monitor suspended from one of the cross beams. The sides of the tank begin to bulge outwards, as if made of mesh rather than glass. Rick plows into you trying to get away, he has one hand in the inner pocket of his lab coat—and the sides of the tank burst. 

A wave of the goo splatters you and Rick. The explosion’s concussive force, mitigated by the design of the tank, still knocks you both flat; in the tangle of Rick’s limbs with yours there is an odd tugging sensation radiating from the base of your neck.

Before you can think about what that could be, your head careens off the sharp edge of the counter. Pain blooms, numb and warm at first, and you hear, distantly, Jerry’s whimpering, and swearing in what sounds like your voice. You’re calling Jerry a stupid fucking idiot, not that you disagree, but you’d never say it aloud, and the air is filling with acrid smoke as the telepathic goo oxidizes. 

Strange. You’re tangled with Rick, in his lab coat and long skinny limbs, and your last disoriented thought as you struggle against fading consciousness is that proximity to him isn’t entirely unpleasant.


	2. Chapter 2

  
You come-to in nearly the same position, as far as you remember. The smoke has dissipated somewhat, though the monitor, dangling by a sparking cord, is still blinking its now-redundant message. _CRITICAL FAILURE._ Like it’s mocking you.  
  
You stand up, swaying, and you must have hit your head pretty hard because you feel like you’re floating. Maybe you’re concussed? You blink a few times and rub your eyes, and that’s another odd thing—you didn’t have to shove Rick off of you, he’s still there on the ground.  
  
Or, no. Rather, _you_ are. Perhaps out of body experiences are common after getting hit on the head? It had been a nasty bump, you’d heard a crunch. You watch yourself stir, stumble to your feet, and the reaction that plays out on your—her?—face mirrors the one you’d just gone through. You look down at your hands. Long fingers, nails cut short, calluses on the palms. And a few liver spots, you don’t have those. Your body, dressed in Rick’s clothes, and so very tall, you wonder how he doesn’t get vertigo looking down his nose at everyone constantly.  
  
Brilliant as he is, the two of you reach the horrifying conclusion at the same time. You switched bodies with Rick Sanchez. Or the other way around? Rick swapped minds with you. Before you can say anything, before you have a chance to panic, a pathetic moan issues from the direction of the shelves. You both whip around and see Jerry clumsily freeing himself from the tumble of cardboard boxes and junk-- old VHS tapes, cobwebbed bike helmets, sports equipment.  
  
  
“Oh…” Jerry gets to his feet, wobbly, holding his forehead. “What the hell happened?” He looks around at the mess and his bewildered expression changes instantly. He launches into a rant about being the man of the house, and the clippers again, and respect for boundaries. For a moment there you’d been worried he was actually hurt.  
  
  
“… well, Rick? Nothing to say?”  
  
You realize Jerry is addressing you, while you had been staring around, totally disinterested in Jerry, and expecting Rick to interrupt his son-in-law with a scathing put-down.  
  
“Uh…”  
  
“Get rid of the idiot,” Rick hisses from about shoulder-height. Are you really that short? Nevertheless, you agree. However bad this situation is, it would be marginally better without Jerry.  
  
You gulp, affecting your best impression of Rick. “Wh-what are you still doing here, _Jerry._ ” There, that sneer was pretty good, and your nerves lend you the stutter.  
  
He opens his mouth to reply, but you preempt him, pointing to the door. He cowers. Interesting. Either your impression was particularly spot-on, or Rick just has that effect, and his reputation carries it. “Out. _Now._ ”  
  
Muttering, Jerry hesitates, but thinks better of pushing his luck and slinks away. You stare at him leaving for too long, you realize, after he slams the door behind him. Rick would have turned away after issuing the order, confident that it would be obeyed.  
  
You drop your arm and roll your shoulders. His shoulders. “Does your back always ache like this?” You ask, immediately regretting the question. The absurdity of the situation makes you blithe, but Rick does not share your amusement.  
  
Seeing your face glare like that is a new and bizarre experience. The little crease between your eyebrows, and the downturn of your mouth-- it’s Rick’s signature glower, transposed onto your features. It occurs to you to tell him not to do that, he’ll give you premature wrinkles. Instead, you lift a hand to explore the jawline of the face you’re wearing.  
  
Rick-- you must think of him as Rick, not Rick-in-your-body, if only to preserve your sanity-- elbows you out of his way.  
  
“What are you doing?” Plaintive sincerity sounds entirely wrong in his rough voice. Likewise, when he snaps back at you, “fixing this,” acidity has no place in yours. He only manages to sound bratty, realizes it, and his scowl deepens.  
  
It becomes apparent, after about fifteen tense minutes of Rick tinkering and you hovering, that fixing this isn’t going to be immediate. Indeed, his tinkering grows more furious each time he attends to another area of the mess and yet achieves nothing. He inspects the ruins of the tank first, resets its walls (it was mesh, after all), collects some of the goo in a vial, gets excited when he has some idea he thinks will solve this. It’s all opaque to you, and you stop asking questions when all he does is snap at you or ignore them.  
  
Finally, with a frustrated roar that sounds nothing like you, he lunges and rips the monitor from its dangling cord to get it to stop flashing _CRITICAL FAILURE._ That _had_ been getting rather irritating.  
  
When he moves on to the circuit board, he attempts to reach inside a pocket of a lab coat he isn’t wearing. That realization makes him freeze.  
  
“G-g-give th—gimme that coat.” Panicked, he rushes over to you and starts patting down the front of it.  
  
“What? Why?” You shrink away from him reflexively. The intimacy is strange, and he clearly thinks of the body you’re in as still his.  
  
“I need something in it.” He finds what he was looking for when you’ve shrugged halfway out of it; he holds up an odd grey device that looks sort of like a handheld barcode reader, only with a green bulb on top.  
  
“What is that?” You put the coat back on, straightening the lapels, and realize that it’s stained with what’s likely beer, motor oil, and other unidentified substances. It doesn’t smell great.  
  
“Portal gun.” At your blank confusion, he heaves a forbearing sigh, as if you’re hopelessly dense, and demonstrates wordlessly. The gun opens a vertical swirling green vortex in midair, which he walks into, and disappears. It closes with a pop, like a drop of water, and another one opens closer to the driveway, from which he reappears.  
  
You don’t know which thing should amazing you more at this point. The body swap? The fact that your neighbor has a teleportation device, which he is now locking away in a safe? Your own apparent nonchalance at the entire crazy situation?  
  
“Are we stuck like this?” In your mind, you’re already settling into the disturbing possibility that you are, though you ask variations of the same question until he yells at you.  
  
“We will be unless y-y-you— just shut up about it!“ The outbreak of a small fire atop the workbench stalls his tirade; he swears, and dumps sand on everything to put it out. The mail you had brought over is somewhere in that pile, probably unsalvageable. Rick’s shoulders slump. “We’re fucking screwed,” he concludes, and continues working anyway.  
  
Entertaining that thought isn’t panic-inducing, so much as a list of annoyances. You mull them over. “We can’t tell anyone.”  
  
“No shit.”  
  
“Because I—oh.” You’d been expecting a fight, had a list of reasons prepared. He rattles them off, impatient and snide. Family, friends, whatever bullshit responsibilities you have, which he’s not looking forward to assuming, by the way.  
  
It shouldn’t be so easy to accept the situation for what it is, but his comment rankles. “I’m not exactly thrilled about spending more time than I already have as an old man.”  
  
“Welllllll get used to it.” He pauses, looks like he’s about to burp, but can’t get anything to come out. “Maybe it’s escaped your myopic notice but I-I-I’m not an idiot. I’m not dumb. Telling—letting people know about this, there’ll only be questions and- and shit I don’t need to waste my time dealing with. Soooooo we’ll have to switch places until I can recreate Jerry’s colossal fuck-up, and this side-effect isn’t going to wear off anytime soon. It’s-- this is indefinite. I hope you’re prepared to eat a lot of fiber.”  
  
You take a deep breath, calming yourself enough to nod thoughtfully, and ignore that warning about fiber. You agree in principle, but are unsure of the reality. “How… I mean, I don’t think people will buy it if we just, you know, walk into each other’s lives.” Your hands are shaking. You shove them in your pockets, but it feels wrong. You barely know him, but you don’t think you’ve ever see him put his hands in his pockets.  
  
He rolls his eyes, making no effort to conceal his disdain. “Yeah, _duh._ ”  
  
“Fine, so we agree. And if you’re going to convince anyone, the first step is to not openly ridicule people. I’m not like that.”  
  
“Uh, well, that’s kinda my thing. I call ‘em as I see ‘em. Stupid is stupid and I’m-- I don’t have to tolerate it.”  
  
“Rick. _Please._ ” The possible consequences finally resolve into focus. Your family and friends won’t understand. You’ll lose your job, certainly. There must be some stakes in this for him, too. He can’t really expect to live as you for the foreseeable future without making any effort to actually be you. What you say next is one of the rare instances where your subconscious works faster than your active mind.  
  
“What happened wasn’t entirely Jerry’s fault.” It’s a guess, but a correct one, because Rick’s eyes widen before he scowls. “If you-- if anyone realizes we’ve switched, you’ll have to explain exactly how bad your mistake was.” You reason it out aloud, not accusatory, carefully unemotional, although your hands are clammy.  
  
Somehow, that works.  
  
“Shit. Okay. Might as well do this now. Get ready for a crash course in Rick Sanchez.”


	3. Chapter 3

The promised crash course proves to be Rick making himself comfortable in your home, and answering your reasonable questions with single-word dismissiveness. He leads you over there from the ruins of the workshop, stomping up the walk and letting himself in as if he’s been here before. 

“I usually take off my shoes,” you say, toeing off his old man loafers by the front door. The reminder is ineffective. He beelines for the fridge, assesses your selection, takes an entire bottle of wine, then makes for the living room. “And I don’t drink wine straight from the bottle!” You call after him. You pull up your left sleeve, expecting to find a watch. Nothing. Not on the right wrist, either. The digital clock on the microwave tells you it’s 6:06. You think you should be hungry, but your body isn’t. You contemplate taking a beer, think better of it, and follow him into the living room in time to see him flop down on your couch. Even in your body he manages to take up the majority of it.

He waits until he sees you watching, and kicks his still-shoed feet up on your coffee table. If you did that at a friend’s house, they would ask what the hell is wrong with you. It occurs to you that he’ll need a crash course in you, too. True, you live alone, but you have family and friends and a job. Oh, dear god. Your job. Fear seizes you, along with visions of him acting like himself, which is likely all it would take to get you fired. 

You sit down in the armchair across from him, cross your legs and hunch your shoulders. He’ll have to show up to your workplace tomorrow and pretend like he knows what he’s doing. 

Rick takes a swig of wine, burps, and informs you that you’ll be discovered in a minute if you sit like that.

“Like what?” You adjust, uncrossing your legs. It _was_ uncomfortable, and had drawn your attention to a part of him you are not looking forward to dealing with.

“Like you-- like you don’t have a big swinging dick a-a-and swangly balls between your legs.”

You blink, unable to stop the blush from creeping up your neck. _Swangly? Ignore that for now._ You’ll have to shower in this body. You’ll need to pee sooner or later. Maybe you can combine both and avoid touching anything except when absolutely necessary. Even now, something in your crotch region itches. With as much subtlety as possible, you shift trying to relieve that feeling by wiggling your hips a bit. Rick smirks at you as if he knows exactly what you’re doing. Well, he should. This is his body, and the few times you’ve seen him before this he hasn’t exactly been coy about scratching his balls. 

Then, the thought occurs to you that he will have equally unfettered access to your body, and you can assume he’ll have less restraint. 

On cue, Rick takes a drink, belches, and scratches his ribs. “Well? Tell me about yourself. The abridged version, I-I-I’m not interested in your unrequited middle school crushes or lame stuff like hopes and dreams.”

“Okay, fine.” Like you would trust him with that information anyway. “Basic facts.” You rattle off your name, age, birthday, names of family and friends. Anything and everything you can think of, from your work address to your favorite foods, to your hair care routine. You don’t typically have a stutter, but figure it would have been insensitive and pointless to bring up that detail. You’re not giving him enough credit. He’s brilliant, he can come up with a reason to explain the sudden change in speech pattern, as long as nothing else raises suspicion. 

He drinks continuously, asks no questions, and maintains a blank stare. He stays silent for so long, you have to wonder. “Rick, are you listening?”

“Huh? What?”

You roll your eyes. “Your obvious boredom is not reassuring.” Perhaps you should resign yourself now to the fact that this old man is going to ruin your life.

“Yeah, I’m not exactly jumping with-- jumping for joy over here about having to work eight hours a day and pretend a group of strangers is important to me. A-a-and another thing, if I’m working, I think I’m owed a share of those wages. Check it, 80 percent. Th-that’s-- that’s what I’d call fair.” 

You’re about to reply with an incredulous laugh, then think better of it. He’s just testing you, seeing what kind of reaction he can get. Better start trying to channel him now. “Uh, no.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my job! And I have a mortgage!” 

He drinks more-- he’s killing that bottle pretty quickly, probably doesn’t realize your body can’t handle alcohol the way his can-- and burps to indicate your reaction wasn’t quite right.

“Because fuck you, that’s why! Jesus, Rick, why is every conversation with you a-a-a— a dick measuring contest!”

He smirks. “Because going just by girth I usually win.”

Ignore that. You’ll see soon enough. “We should exchange phones. Or keep each other’s and, uh, give the passcodes.” To your surprise, he doesn’t put up much of a fight. He tells you his phone passcode, which you try in front of him to make sure it’s not a fake; you tell him yours and he does the same. You decide not to bring up the ‘don’t look at my camera roll’ issue if he doesn’t, and he stays silent on that account. Fine. Let him snoop on your post-gym nude selfies and those weird ones you took of a rash on your arm that turned out to be a bug bite. Not much he won’t be able to see in person, anyway.

“Your turn, Rick.” You realize that he’s just been delaying this moment. He’s loathe to reveal much about himself, though you can’t blame him. You barely know each other.

He stands up.

“Where are you going?”

He waves the now-empty wine bottle in front of your face as he passes you. He returns with a beer, swaying and yet somehow still coherent.

“Alright. M-m-my name is Richard Sanchez. No middle name. My birthday is--” he hits a snag already, his jaw works, and you can see his mind searching for some way to withhold this information. “My birthday is July 14th… ahem… 1944. Most people don’t know that and I make a point of not celebrating it. Birthdays are pointless. The day you came into the world is as insignificant as any other day.”

You resist rolling your eyes. How often does his family expect pessimistic ranting nihilism from him?

“Uh, I drink coffee, black. Breakfast is my favorite meal of the day. I like eggs and my daughter Beth’s cooking. If it’s her soul-sucking parasite of a husband Jerry who does the cooking I won’t eat it. Ever. He’s made some clumsy attempts to poison me and I-I-I’m— I don’t trust him.”

After witnessing Jerry’s capabilities in the garage, you have to agree with Rick. Malicious intentions or not, Jerry is an irritant. 

“Work-wise I do a bunch of science but trying to explain it to you— I’m not gonna waste my time, you won’t understand. If any of them ask you for something, ask you to fix their stuff, just say you’re busy or you have to go take a shit or something. That’s my go-to excuse.

“There’s— that’s another thing. W-w-we’re gonna need a reason for me— you— to keep coming over to my workshop. Just tell them we’re doing a science project together and we’ll leave it at that. Any more prying questions and we tell them we’re hooking up and that’ll shut it down.”

You give a snort of laughter. “Fine. Sure.” 

He narrows his eyes, you pre-empt whatever he’s about to say with a pointed reminder that he has to be awake and getting ready for work in eight hours. As concerned as you are, you have to draw the line somewhere; you’re not going to look after him like he’s a child. He’s drunk and belligerent and shouts at you as you let yourself out the front door.

“Gonna— eeurgh— gonna— I’M GONNA do this! Gonna be a better you than you biiiiitch!”  


Here’s hoping.


	4. Chapter 4

Rick 7:44 AM- _fuck i’m so hun gover_  
Rick 7:44 AM - _hungover_

You’re awake already when you get his first two texts. None of the rest of the Smith family are up this early on a weekend, and when you had returned the previous evening, they hadn’t questioned you. Jerry had been skittish, Beth drunk, Summer immersed in a TV show. Only Morty had wanted your attention, and you’d brushed him off (perhaps too nicely; he had acquiesced with a cheerful, ‘that’s okay, Rick! Thanks anyway, maybe next time!’). 

Looking for Rick’s room you’d gone astray at first, upstairs. You couldn’t very well ask his family or say you’d forgotten. You found it eventually, your frustration and nerves lending you a passable impression of Rick himself, stomping around brushing off their entreaties for help-- Rick hadn’t been exaggerating about that. It had been one thing after another until you found an untidy room with, among other things, an electron microscope on the desk. Slamming the door in Jerry’s face was especially satisfying. 

Exhausted and irritated, you hadn’t even gotten undressed or looked around before collapsing on the narrow cot and falling asleep.

Somehow, when you wake up the next morning, you feel nauseous, achy, even more anxious than the night before. Only one thing to do for that, so you go to the kitchen and start the coffee. Sitting with your first cup, wondering if you should send him a wake-up text, when you get those first two from him. 

_Oh no._ Should you go over there and drag him out of bed? No, that would look odd, neighbors might see you and wonder why. You get distracted for about fifteen minutes, poking around on his phone, though paying particular attention to avoid his photos. As if sensing your fingers hovering over the screen about to type at a minute before eight, he comes through. 

Rick 7:59 AM - _don’t get your panties in a twist, I’m here. On time._   
Rick 8:00 AM - _Actually balls. Don’t get my balls in a twist._

You sigh aloud in relief. That’s one less thing to worry about, though the caffeine has not alleviated your general malaise. 

You 8:01 AM - _are you going to make it through the day?_  
Rick 8:01 AM - _that depends how often your coworkers are accustomed to you slapping them_  
You 8:01 AM - _No! Not at all. DO NOT_  
Rick 8:03 AM - _not even a little?_

You wonder if it’s worth threatening him with blackmail to get him to take your job seriously. As much as it would pain you to be nice to Jerry, you would fake it to get Rick to cooperate.

Throughout the day, Rick texts you live updates. You await them anxiously, not wanting to pester him or be a distraction, and in the meantime you putter around the Smith house acquainting yourself with its layout and avoiding its residents. That’s easy enough right now, as their rooms are all upstairs, while Rick’s room is on the first floor across the hall from Jerry’s study. You have plenty of time to get familiar with the layout of the kitchen and where the plates, cups, and utensils are, before you encounter the surprise early-riser of the weekend.

“Good morning, Summer!” You greet her cheerfully before remembering Rick’s ‘be a jerk’ maxim.

Through a yawn, she sneers at you. “Why are you so happy? What happened, did you get laid or something last night?”

“Uh…”

“Gross, grandpa Rick, I’m not actually expecting an answer.” She goes for a cup of coffee, pouring some of what you made earlier and putting the mug in the microwave. 

You have to think fast, recall what Rick told you and find a way to salvage this before Summer senses that something is off. “Oh, what, does that surprise you, Sum-sum?” That actually sounded just like him, and there’s a low roughness to his voice that’s rather pleasing.

“Does what surprise me? That you can stay up past 9 pm?”

You’ve underestimated the power of teen sarcasm. Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “That… that grandpa can still pull babyyyyy! I got-- got right up in some- some alien puss and a-a-a-a-- there was a buff young man in gold lame’ hotpants, I got his number, I can hook you up if you w--”

Summer shrieks in disgust and surrenders the exchange, fleeing the room with her phone and coffee. Good. That saves you having to spin more incredible stories, and you were about to run out of ideas.

Your hands are shaky, your headache and nausea get worse. You don’t understand why you feel hungover when Rick had been the one drinking. You chug coffee, which only has the effect of making you have to pee. 

Rick’s texts to you become progressively more distressing. He seems to be having a fine time wreaking havoc and offending your coworkers. 

Rick 9:31 AM - _am I not supposed to point out Julie’s glass eye? I was only telling her I can make her a cybernetic replacement that would allow her to see through walls, and some kinds of fabric…_  
You 9:34 AM - _no, rick. you are not._  
Rick 9:35 AM - _this bitch is thirsty i think she’d appreciate it_

Some of his communications are brusque, opaque in meaning and purpose, which only makes you more nervous. 

Rick 10:54 AM - _nasty gal_   
You 10:57 AM - _what? Who is?_  
Rick 11:00 AM - _don’t playa hate on me broh_  
You 11:00 AM - _don’t you fucking dare call anyone that_

Rick 2:36 PM - _godddddd my head hurts like a mofo_  
You 2:37 PM - _don’t drink so much then_  
You 2:37 PM - _and for the love of god don’t puke on anyone_   
You 2:38 PM - _or anything_

At that point you’re jiggling your foot, watching Ball Fondlers on TV and trying to ignore both the family’s chatter and your own rising discomfort. You have to pee. It’s unavoidable. Efforts to suppress it are no longer effective. 

“I gotta take a leak,” you declare as you stand up. It’s an odd thing to announce, but the family seems used to it. You realize, as you blunder down the hallway to the bathroom, that you had made the pronouncement to psych yourself up. You get the belt and fly undone, albeit clumsily. Rick’s body is thin as a rail, and so the pants fall to your ankles, which feels and looks ridiculous. One barrier remains. You close your eyes as you hook your thumbs in the waistband of his tighty whitey underwear. 

The underwear join the trousers on the floor, so you’re bare-assed in the bathroom standing in front of the toilet.

Oh, yeah. You have to put the seat up. You take your cock in hand, trying very much not to notice it, to pay no attention to how it feels, and just aim in the direction of the bowl. 

_Don’t look don’t look don’t look._ You chant to yourself. Averting your eyes proves to be a terrible idea— you miss, swear, and nearly knock your phone off the sink into the toilet. After you’ve re-dressed and cleaned up, you retreat to Rick’s room, barricading yourself in the dim, cloistral space. You can’t face the family again yet, not when your head is pounding like this and Morty had looked at you like you were crazy for ‘forgetting’ the big twist from the previous season finale episode of Ball Fondlers.

You lie down on the narrow cot, expecting it to be uncomfortable. It’s not. The hard mattress, the scratchy drab green woolen blanket, the dimensions of the cot itself-- they all fit this body just right. You settle on your back, thinking of the Three Bears, wondering if Rick finds your plush queen sized bed similarly comfortable.

Just as you start to doze off, another text from Rick makes your phone chime. 

Rick 4:15 PM - _Kylar has a crush on you. Or me. Whatever. She thinks you’re hot and I think I can swing this so we can do a threesome. You down?_

You frown at the screen when you read that one. Again, it crosses your mind that Rick could be doing… well… whatever he wants in your body. Not just losing your job, but sleeping around, getting tattooed and pierced and high, not that you would object to any of that, but how about asking first?

Rick won’t. You text him that you’re not down, expecting some sort of argument, and instead getting radio silence for the next three hours. In the meantime, there is a Sunday night family dinner to survive.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter. I'll now be updating this in tandem with my tumblr, since I realized I was a week behind here.

“Dad, pass the mashed potatoes, please.”

You’re scowling at your plate, which is the Rick-est thing you can think of to do, and just about the only expression you can manage at the moment. 

It takes Beth another try, “dad?”, and a concerned prodding of your arm for you to realize she’s talking to you. 

“Huh? Oh.” You’d been herding peas with your fork, consumed by persistent headache and nausea and general malaise. As you pick up the serving bowl to give her, you can’t hide your hands shaking.

“Everything okay, Rick?” Jerry pauses his bubble-popping tablet game to ask, though his tone isn’t kind.

“Well, _Jerry_ …” it takes you too long to figure out what sort of scathing response Rick would make. “Yeah, I’m fine. Thanks. Would you pass me the green beans?”

A hush falls over the table; something you’ve said, or all of it, has the family staring at you like you’ve broken down in tears and confessed how much you really do love them. 

“Since when do you like green beans, dad?”

You gulp water to give yourself a moment to think. “Uhhhhhh. Since forever, Beth.” She looks at you strangely, and you make a mental note to ask Rick how he usually refers to his daughter, if not by name. 

“Grandpa Rick, didn’t you just say last week that you hate green beans because they remind you of martian fingers and if you eat them we should follow emergency protocol Delta-77?”

_Emergency protocol?_

Jerry voices what you can’t. “Emergency protocol? What are you preparing for?”

“Y-you’re confused, Summer,” you say, shoveling forkfuls of vegetables into your mouth. Might as well, you have to commit to it now. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”

“Who else would I confuse you with? My other grandpa?”

“Don’t be silly, you don’t--” you catch yourself at the edge of that one. You actually don’t know whether Jerry’s parents are alive, Rick hadn’t bothered to detail much more than the immediate family; most of the instruction had focused on himself. “Y-y-you don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s for dessert?”

Interest in dessert placates all except Summer; she gives you a piercing look before turning her attention back to her phone.

You score one success amidst the series of missteps in this exchange with Morty:

“...a-a-am I right, Rick?” 

The response comes so naturally, and you’re not sure how; though, you’d been zoning out speculating about whether Rick will obey your hair care routine. “I’m almost certain you’re not, but to be fair I wasn’t listening.” That alone seems to restore their confidence that ‘Rick’ is mostly unchanged from his curmudgeonly self who they know and tolerate, though your genuine enthusiasm for the ice cream sandwiches Beth brings out also helps. 

When dinner is over, signalled by Jerry getting up and wandering away, still tapping bubbles, you follow suit. Normally you would help clear the dishes, it’s only polite, but you’re not a guest. You’re the mooching grandfather. You retreat once more to your room, feeling no better than you had in the morning. The prospect of living like this indefinitely is even more daunting, and you don’t want to sleep in your clothes again, but then face the conundrum that Rick apparently does not own pajamas. You do find a robe, and a change of underwear, and fresh socks, and with delicate care to avoid touching skin as much as possible, you change into them. 

You’ll have to bring all of this up to Rick. By the time he texts you, ‘home’ and ‘before you blow up my phone just know you still have a job’, you’re drifting off to sleep, and you read them with grudging relief, before silencing your phone and closing your eyes again. As poorly as you believe he did at your job, today wasn’t easy for you, either. You’ll need more than just a crash course to keep this up long-term.


	6. Chapter 6

Rick comes over the next afternoon, at your insistence, and half-listens as you recount your first full day under the scrutiny of his mostly unobservant family. You feel even worse than the day before, you think you have a fever, you tell him, and does he have some disease or condition he neglected to mention?

He pauses, though doesn’t look up from the stand of vials into which he’s pipetting different colored liquids. “L-lemme get this straight. Your symptoms are– what, again? Tremors, headache, nausea, now a fever. Anything else?”

“Uhhh. I feel like my heart is racing and I’m sweaty for no reason. I– or, you, I guess– hit my head pretty hard the other day, I thought maybe it was a concussion…”

“A-a-are you kidding me? You’d better not be making such idiotic suggestions when you’re around anyone who actually knows me. No.” He resumes working. “Inner left pocket of my lab coat. Should be a flask.”

You find it and take it out. “Uh huh?”

“Dosage schedule is– I-I-I dunno, ten times a day, be generous with it.”

“You’re going to make me take medication but not tell me the actual problem?” 

He finally looks up, right at you, as if your stupidity is too confounding to dismiss. “The problem is _alcoholism. Jesus_ y-y-you’re– there’s no need to pry so much. Just drink it so you’ll feel better and stop whining.

“My body is physically addicted.” He adds after a moment. “You’ll have to drink to feel normal.”

You do. The extent of his dependence is a quieting thought. You’d known he’s a drinker, everyone on the block knows it.

“Will anyone notice if I switched to whiskey?” You ask. The vodka in his flask is pungent, and burns your throat going down. “Would it be out of place?”

“No. The more they see you drinking the better, doesn’t matter what. Last night at dinner they probably thought something was wrong if you only had water. And green beans.”

“Yeah, tha–eeurgh–” your burp surprises you enough that you momentarily lose your train of thought. “Hey, I did it!”

“Congrats,” Rick grunts, following it up with a belch of his own. You didn’t know your body was capable of such respiratory power.

“And the green beans,” you continue, after swigging from the flask again, ”that would’ve been helpful to know. I think Summer might suspect something.”

“Not my problem if you can’t pull this off. I gave you pleeeeenty of information.”

“Rick.” He’s so good at needling you. You’ve explained how important this is, how much is at stake. “I need to know more. I need to know things that Morty would know about you.” The alcohol is already taking effect, settling your nerves and steadying your hands.

Rick groans, shoving away the chemistry set. “ _Fine._ Come– c’mon. If we’re gonna do– if we’re gonna recalibrate and do this right, we can’t do it– it can’t be in here.”

Turns out, Rick has a secret bunker, the entrance of which is a square shaft bored into the concrete floor of the garage. “What did you build this for, an alien invasion?” You joke.

“Yes,” he says flatly. “And while we’re on the subject of getting better at being each other, I would never say anything as moronic as what just came out of your mouth. H-here’s my advice. When you encounter low-hanging conversational fruit like that, ignore the serpent in the Garden of Eden and don’t partake.”

“Sure,” you say, “and on that note I’m not in the habit of offering people condescending, unasked-for advice.”

He starts down the ladder, probably to avoid you.

With the trapdoor shut above, you follow him down into darkness. The descent is unnerving, especially because Rick continues speaking from below you, directing a firehose of minutiae about himself at you, and inviting– no, forcing you to drink.

Rapidly, in the minute or so it takes to go from the garage to the floor of the bunker, you learn: Rick’s least favorite foods, that he is scared of pirates (he won’t say why), his top five movie franchises ranked by soundtrack quality, his dream vacation spot, the name of the summer camp he attended as a child, a list of words he thinks sound funny and thus always chuckles at, his disdain for organized religion, that he tries his hardest to do ‘embarrassing dad things’ around Beth, his complete disinterest in most sports–

“That’s a good one to know,” you comment. Jerry had been making overtures to ‘patch things up’ by going to a game together, father and son-in-law style, at Beth’s urging, you suspect. You needed a way to get out of it.

The landing at the end of the ladder is a small antechamber, starkly-lit with one overhead fluorescent. Opposite the ladder shaft there is a monolithic door with a porthole window set at your eye level.

You stand next to Rick expectantly; he grabs your wrist and you instinctively wrench away from him. You’re stronger than him– this body is stronger, at least. He grabs again, you retreat, again.

“Stop– don’t make this difficult! I need my fingerprints.”

“I can do it myself, you can just tell me. And I’m a person in here, whatever the hell happened doesn’t mean that you now control two bodies, Rick.”

He indicates the console to the right of the door. “You _can’t_ do it yourself. That thing is keyed to a precise amount of pressure, full palm, flat on the scanner. There’s no—you can’t press too hard. If you do it’ll mis-read it and we’ll be dropped into the oubliette. Give me– ahem– _your_ hand.”

_Oubliette?_ The unpleasant possibility that this is actually a sex dungeon, not a bunker, crosses your mind, followed by the slightly more intriguing one of what Rick might do in said dungeon. You hold out your hand and he takes it. You feel suddenly self-conscious at the contact; you grow warm. His hand touching yours is soft and small, yet firmly insistent as he straightens your fingers to the right shape. Your hand is the old one here, long fingered and too bony and calloused to be elegant. It looks odd contrasted with his young, smooth skin.

You clear your throat, willing yourself to be pliant under his touch, and _why_ is your heart rate picking up? “It only allows one try? Did you set it up like that on purpose? What if it malfunctions?”

“If it malfunctions then that’ll be episode two of our wacky misadventures, trying to escape that hellhole.” His tone is airy, he sounds as if he might relish the challenge rather than dread it. At least one of you is having fun.

As soon as the mechanism locking the door clicks open, he releases your hand; you make more of a show than is necessary snatching it away from him. You’d hoped he wouldn’t notice your true reaction to his touch, but he does. Of _course_ he does, and he smirks at you and asks, “what, can’t stand touching yourself?”

The only way out of that trap is to pretend you didn’t hear him. Besides, Rick himself wouldn’t get flustered by something like that, and there are more exciting things going on. Namely, that you’re in a bunker and over there on the wall—

“Are those _aliens?_ In tanks?”

“Y-y-you know you really need to stop being so impressed by everything. That’s not just for being me, that’s just in general.”

“Does your family know they’re down here? Are they alive?”

Rick demands your flask, takes a long drink from it, and reluctantly gives it back. “Just—cool it with the questions, will you? The answers are yes, yes, no, and no. Maybe you’re—you might think that I’m bringing you down here as a gesture of goodwill, and nothing could be further from the truth.” (It’s your turn to drink. Insufferable bastard.) “You would’ve had to come down here eventually, it’s better anyway. The only place we’ll be able to work on fixing this without interruptions.” 

“That’s not what you were working on up there? With the vials and stuff?”

“That dinky little chemistry set? Nah, broh. And when I say ‘we’re working on it’, I mean me. I’ll be working on it, doing the uh, the heavy lifting, but you’ll need to be here for any… testing.”

“You—“ _Testing? Really? Was that ominous tone totally necessary?_ “Never mind. Can we sit down somewhere? I have a list of questions and I want to take notes.”

Rick hates that idea, but leads you further in, to a section where the décor is less ‘bunker’ and more ‘Swedish furniture catalog’. Clean lines, pops of color, plants, a tasteful geometric rug. Nothing about it matches up with the dingy clutter of his workshop or his bedroom upstairs in the house. Had he spent his entire design budget down here and been left with nothing? Or he wants to present one side of himself to his family, when he really prefers this. It doesn’t add up. Somehow, a wall of windows allows in natural light. That, out of everything, baffles you the most, but you can’t waste any more of his goodwill on questions he finds inane, so you keep your thoughts to yourself.

The one part that does make sense is the extensive wet bar. Shelves and shelves of bottles, arrayed like books. He goes straight for the vodka, pours one for himself, and one for you, though you hadn’t asked.

You sit awkwardly, still not accustomed to the best way to fold your long limbs and avoid crushing any important bits. Plus, the lab coat keeps getting caught on things. You definitely won’t be mentioning that you shut the tail of it in a door yesterday.

Rick settles in the armchair opposite you, clinging to his drink as if it’s a security blanket. He’s been bracing for this round of questioning, you can tell, and can only be patient enough to endure it with liquor. You, too, are ready to move things along, and you take out your notebook, but he has one more avoidance tactic to throw at you.

“What, are you— you selling hotdogs over there or something?” He starts cackling, looking the direction of your crotch.

“Wha—? Oh.” Your fly is down. You zip it up with as much dignity as you can muster, though it takes a few minutes to get him back on track.

Soon, though, you’re getting answers out of him. Helpful information, even if he does deliver it waspishly, interrupting you in order to get you to stutter more, and lose your temper and snap at him. Perhaps the gaff with your pants helped. The burps you pick up too, as well as a few of his catchphrases.

“Lick…lick… lick my balls? You say that in front of your grandchildren?”

“Uh, _no._ Not like that. Listen. Lick lick lick my baaaaallls!” He tosses back the rest of his drink and gets up to make another one. “Once more, with feeling!”

It actually takes thrice more, with the reluctance of concentrated effort until you can say it to his exacting standard; the conversation moves on.

“What’s your favorite Ball Fondlers character?”

“Benjamin. Morty and I, w-we– his favorite is Attila Starwar, we argue about that a lot.”

You nod thoughtfully, pretending to have some idea of what he’s talking about. By the time you run out of questions, you’ve accumulated several pages of notes. He’d cast a repressive gaze every time you scribbled something down, and sometimes seemed to start talking faster in order to prevent you from catching everything. For your part, you’ve gleaned enough, and have enough sense not to push your luck by asking him to repeat himself.

You drain your glass, it’s your third drink and you find the amount you usually drink is less effective. Now, how to politely excuse yourself, except Rick wouldn’t bother with that, and anyway, he takes care of it for you this time.

“Alllllllllright. Have we wasted enough time with this? Think you can pull it off? Is your, uh, ego sufficiently stroked?”

“Yeeeeeep.” You imitate the way he draws out a word, testing it, hearing the vowel and consonant in his gravelly voice. Rather pleasing, though he quirks an eyebrow at you. You can almost hear him asking, _like how that sounds, huh?_ You clear your throat. “H-how… do you, uh, get out of here? Do you need the hand scan thing every time?” You wince. Rick stutters, he doesn’t stammer. Another thing to work on.

“Yep.” He shoots you an amused smile. “I’ll text you when I need you.”


	7. Chapter 7

You’ve held out for as long as you can. Deodorant and dry shampoo and baby wipes have only gotten you so far, and the act of getting undressed and dressed again has been perfected to a quick-change routine, done in the dark in Rick’s room. For the times you _do_ want light, there’s another inconvenience: you still haven’t been able to find more than one lamp in there, and the blackout curtain over the window turned out to be a blanket affixed to the wall with heavy duty staples. Even _being_ this man, living his life, you’ll never really understand him.

It’s been almost a week so far. Sunday through Friday, drinking steadily and blowing off family and obligations with outlandish excuses. You’d thought it would have been fixed by now, thought it would have been easier to coast through this whole thing, unnoticed by his family. _And_ that Rick would have found the solution. (He texts you every afternoon, and down to the bunker you go, to putter around while he horrifies you recounting close calls at your job.) There remains one essential function you have not completed.

“Uhmm, grandpa? When’s the last time you showered?” Leave it to Summer to come right out and say what everyone’s thinking. As sarcastic as she is, she’s starting to grow on you. You suspect she’s closest to knowing that something is up between you and Rick, and also the furthest from caring or saying anything about it.

Beth shrugs apologetically, giving you a grimace that says she agrees.

“Yeah, Rick, jeez, you sure-- you smell kinda-- there’s a stank coming from your direction and it’s not the brussels sprouts.” Morty, bless him, struggles through that and looks so pleased with himself, you hesitate to put him down, at least not the way you know Rick would do it. You need to derail this conversation since you have no good reason for not showering, other than that the idea of looking at Rick’s naked body doesn’t make you as upset as you think it should.

Fortunately, Jerry presents himself as an alternative target. “Son, don’t insult your mother’s cooking. First rule of a healthy marriage. And yes, Rick, it is getting a tad overpowering, you might want to consider baths, I hear those are easier for the elderly.”

_Excellent._ Slinging insults is becoming easier, and laying into Jerry is never not-fun. “Stop bandwagoning, _Jerry_ , holy-- I-I-I mean holy crap have you had one original idea in your life? And what the hell would you know about a healthy marriage? I could write—forget a senior thesis, I could write a dissertation based on every bad decision you’ve made with my daughter.”

“Hey! Why would you attack me and not Morty! He bandwagoned first!”

“Aaaaaand now you want to redirect my righteous anger to your son. Your own son, Jerry, y-y-your teenage son. _Jesus_. Piece of work over here.” You pause to drink from your flask rather than the glass of wine in front of you on the table. “And I’ll have you know, Summer, I’m doing a big important science experiment and if I was the, uh-- if I get clean it’ll wash the nanobots right off.”

“’kay.” She’s already gone back to looking at her phone. Better than her perceptive observation.

She’s right, though. You excuse yourself from the table as soon as possible, and go to the bathroom. Door locked, shower on to warm up, towel at the ready. There’s a full-length mirror on the back of the door, maybe it’ll steam up enough so you don’t even have to see anything. You get undressed, kicking aside the dirty clothes. Getting clean will be a relief, despite your apprehension.

While searching for shampoo and conditioner and non-Irish Spring soap (the extent of Rick’s hygiene regimen, according to the man himself), you turn just the right way to catch a glimpse of a pale, skinny arm and bony back.  
Fuck it. You have to look. A quick shower had been the plan, but you can’t very well do that now; you can’t maintain this charade for months if you can’t even look at yourself.

Centered in front of the mirror, you stare at the body you currently inhabit. One area, in particular, draws your eye first.

_Big swinging dick. Saggy balls. No. What was the word he had used?_ You look down at the appendages in question, which jogs your memory.

“Swangly!” You exclaim to yourself under your breath. You look at the reflection of them in the mirror, and a very unwelcome impression sticks in your mind.

Rick Sanchez has a big cock. Even flaccid, as it is now. You resolve that you’ll never experience it or see it in any other state. His-- no, your-- balls hang low, wrinkly, and the pubes are sparse, the same blue-grey color as the rest of your hair. The rest of your body is lacking, not unattractive, but simply too thin. Rangy and sallow, like an underfed animal.

Your hip bones and ribs stick out under pallid skin, arms and legs so long they’d seem out of proportion if your torso weren’t similarly tall and narrow. You look closer at your chest; you’d thought it was hairless there, and indeed, if there ever was much most of it is now gone from age. What’s left is very light.

You turn around and look over your shoulder to check out the ass (might as well) and it does not disappoint. Pretty cute for an old man. You’ll have to make sure to _never_ tell him that.

You note that your thighs are skinny enough that you can see your balls between your legs from this angle. Maybe that’s what he meant by ‘swangly’.

The inspection isn’t complete, but the mirror is starting to fog up, so you get in the shower. Probably for the best, if you had given yourself any longer you might have gotten too curious. He has scars, too, many faded but some new. Another bizarre part of this experience: being in a body whose complete history you don’t know.

You do the cock and balls first, lathering up nice-smelling body wash and washing them with as much professional detachment as possible. You try to imagine yourself as a home-care nurse instead of a woman stuck in a seventy-year old man’s body.

Not like you haven’t been with a man before, not like you haven’t showered with a man before. You take care of things, soaping briskly, touching no more than necessary, but you can’t _not_ feel. Your balls are sensitive, hot to the touch, and your cock the same, thick and weighty, and it’s all rather nice, as if everything-- the steam, the heat, your body itself-- is urging you to explore further.

You clear your throat loudly, and put both of your hands flat on the tile wall for a deliberate pause. Its coolness compared to the water helps you focus. You’d felt a pleasant pulse down there, a stirring, and you _can’t_. You won’t.

Reasons why spin in your mind, rational reasons, and the irrational part of your mind—the part doing the _stirring_ \-- shoots them down just as quickly. 

Frustrated with yourself you move onto your hair next, carding your fingers through it and you encounter your bald spot. Still not used to that. The skin is warm and smooth and you distract yourself for a moment, zoning out as you pet it. You wonder if Rick would let anyone do this to him when he’s in this body, but picturing him sitting patiently for anything, especially anything soft and quiet like this makes you laugh. You shampoo and condition, the second of which is not part of his routine, but it can’t hurt. The rest of your body you do last, a perfunctory, harder-than-necessary scrub to deter any more untoward reactions.

Done, and out. A harrowing experience, for just the reasons you’d been dreading and trying to subdue. Rick, this body you’re stuck in, is attractive. In a strange, my-libido-doesn’t-typically-betray-me-like-this kind of way. Acknowledging that seems like a step in the wrong direction, a concession to a strange and unnatural situation.

You wrap the towel around your waist and go back to your room. Usually you’d have received a succinct text from Rick by now: _garage._ Which means ‘drop whatever you’re doing and get your ass over here, I need _my_ fingerprints to access _my_ lab’.

Confronting him or resisting isn’t worth the argument, and he wouldn’t take it well if you asked why he still feels the need to swing his dick around even when he doesn’t currently have one.

But he hasn’t texted you yet, and it’s an hour after dinner on a Friday night. You vacillate on whether you should text him yourself, getting more and more anxious, and looking at your phone screen every five minutes as if that will broadcast a signal to him. Finally, you decide you can’t stay in this dim, cramped room anymore, though you’re reluctant to leave, too. Leaving means pretending and it’s getting exhausting. As abrasive as Rick is, down in the bunker you don’t have to put up the façade with him.

On your way through the house to the workshop, however, Morty pops up from the couch and tags along, peppering you with questions, entreaties about your health, updates about Jessica, weather observations.

“Not now, Morty,” you grumble, trying to outpace him through the kitchen, but he slips into the garage right after you, before you can slam the door in his face.

“H-hey Rick, I was wondering, you haven’t been looking too good lately, y’know, y-y-you look tired and- and haggard—“

“Rude.”

“—I was wondering if that’s why you haven’t taken me on any adventures.” The boy hovers at your elbow.

Luckily Rick is enough of a grouch that complete silence in the face of prying for personal information can work in your favor. You cast around the workshop, looking for something to occupy you until Morty goes away, but you don’t know how anything works. He could probably call you out for doing something wrong.

The pile of sand is still there from when Rick had used it to douse the fire. In fact, most of the mess from the incident is still there. Rick had taken what he needed from it and left the rest.

You dig out the mail, and hand it to Morty, who takes that as an invitation to stay, and continue talking. Ball Fondlers again. You’re lost when it comes to the details, though Morty doesn’t seem to notice. There’s an online fan forum for the show, which Morty frequents. The few times he mentions the Attila Starwar/Benjamin issue, you make sure to chime in and insist that Benjamin is superior.

Repeated phone checking becomes a tic, and a way of swerving around questions while praying that Rick will intervene. You’d been looking forward to that text, and to the reprieve of being down in the bunker with him. Whether you actually enjoy his company, or just need the break-- that’s a distinction you’re not ready to make yet.

The point when Morty starts detailing his Ball Fondlers fanfiction for you is the point you text Rick out of sheer desperation. _‘Hey what’s going on. Did you have to stay late at work or something?’_

And a follow up: _‘Morty won’t leave me alone I need an out.’_

Rick comes through with a picture that makes you immediately stuff your phone in your pocket.

“What’s wrong, Rick? Did something--?”

“No.” You snap. “I’m—it’s nothing.” You brush him off and stalk past, hoping your shock isn’t evident. “I’m going to bed.” You add with finality, though Morty calls after you that it’s only 8:15.

He’d found it. Rick had found your stash of sex toys, and _then_ , of course, he goes and sends you a picture of it.


	8. Chapter 8

Back in Rick’s room, you lock the door, shutting yourself in darkness, and take a closer look at the photo. That basket had been buried at the back of your closet on purpose. It’s not something he would have just come across. He would’ve had to dig.

Okay. This is fine. It’s not a big deal. For about a minute, you try to reassure yourself with both logic and sips from your flask. It was only a matter of time. He’s bound to find out some secrets, living your life for you, and besides, vibrators are nothing to be ashamed of.

Yes, of course. Perfectly normal. He’s welcome to find your lingerie and tampons too, in fact he’ll need feminine products sooner or later and hasn’t asked, you should probably tell him and won’t _that_ be a fun conversation—

Your phone buzzes again, and when you look at it your heart drops into your stomach.

It’s a selfie of him, holding up your largest dildo, a sparkly purple monstrosity, and smiling coquettishly up to the camera. The message that accompanies it: ‘this looks fun’.

And just like that, the curiosity lodged in your mind morphs to a fascination. You want to see him use it. You want to see him, in your body, fucking himself with that big fake cock and writhing and moaning and arching off the bed. He’d have no idea how good it could feel until he tried, and _oh_ you’d love to witness it, his delight in experimenting with the sensations, the pleasure your body is capable of.

You could tell him everything, coach him. By text, or even sitting beside him on the bed. Show him how you like rubbing your clit, pushing your shirt up and playing with your tits. Taking it slow, getting yourself slick and ready until you can’t hold off anymore, you need to be filled, so you work the length in, fucking your pussy open inch by inch, angle it to hit just the right spot.

_Fuck._ You feel your cock twitch in your slacks, and you shift, uncrossing your legs. That’s another thing to deal with entirely, so you avoid it by taking another pull from your flask. Rick has a way of unbalancing you. Determining when you’ve achieved equanimity just so he can overturn you.

_‘This looks fun.’_ The message dings on your phone screen two minutes later, unanswered. 

You type out ‘trust me it is’, delete it in a moment of clarity, then type it out again and hit send.

You can almost see the indecent smile spread across his face. He replies a few seconds later with another photo. Six of them, arrayed on your floral patterned duvet. _‘do you really need this many? Have you devised some sort of ranking system?’_

Asshole. Whatever he’s trying to goad you into, it’s working. If he’s going through your stuff, you might as well go through his.

You plunge into his camera roll. The contents are just as phallic as expected. His dick, everywhere, and that doesn’t stop you swiping through with a sense of lurid, voyeuristic retribution.

The first one you tap is just his crotch, the bulge in his pants, and the next one he’s grabbing his length through the material.

Without completely realizing what you’re doing, you let your free hand slide down your body, mimicking the photo. You feel the erection— _your_ erection—hot and solid through your pants, and it’s straining the fabric. Too tight. You’re only adjusting it, though, you can’t help the way the body responds.

Keep telling yourself that, so none of this is too wrong.

You swipe again, through more photos, not all of his crotch, until you get to one that makes your jaw drop open, your heart clench and when you finally release your breath arousal smacks you in the face. 

Rick’s erect cock is huge, veiny, lying thick and heavy up against his stomach. His balls sag low, wrinkly, some sparse hairs, all hanging out of pants just like the ones you’re wearing now. The hand visible in the photo is giving the middle finger to the camera.

Like he knew you would snoop, that all it would take would be a provocative photo to twist your resolve and you wouldn’t be able to help yourself. He was right. You lick your lips, pulling at the material of your pants again. That middle finger should be a sign, it’s telling you to cut it out and go to sleep, just forget about all this.

The hardon in your pants throbs. The aching need, that’s on his side, not yours. This body works against you. Where was that line you told yourself you wouldn’t cross? Behind you, somewhere. 

You stare at the picture for a while, lost in fantasy, imagining what it would be like to take him in your mouth, how the skin would be hot and silky, what he might taste like, and his hands, tangling in your hair. Another thing to learn about him. He’d show you the way he likes his dick sucked, using you roughly, fucking your face fast and deep. 

You squeeze your length, stopping short of actually rubbing it, but you need friction, movement, some kind of relief. A groan issues, half frustration, half unvarnished desire and _god_ that sounded hot. It doesn’t immediately register that it was you making that noise, until you make it again, followed by “ohhh _fuck_ …” 

You’re working to unbuckle your belt one-handed, the fact that you’re doing so only registers when you hear the clink, and the creak of leather. 

Stop. 

You have to stop before this goes too far. You toss the phone on the floor, it skids under the table on the other side of the room. 

How do men get rid of erections, other than the obvious way? Cold shower. Think about something gross. Get so drunk it won’t stand up. 

All three. The liquor Rick favors-- his preference being based on proof, not taste-- burns going down. You guzzle it anyway, and concentrate on fixing ideas and images in your mind (not of old men, of course, apparently your subconscious has decided that this one _isn’t_ horrifying). That time you were fourteen and walked in on your parents on Valentine’s Day going at it and rendering living color recreations of illustrations from _The Joy of Sex_.

You shudder and frown, feeling your erection wilt significantly.

In the end the shower isn’t necessary, and seems like it would be more of a risk than anything. Dizzy drunk, you fall asleep in your clothes, and dream that you’re being eclipsed by this secret as its shadow grows to isolate you even from yourself.


	9. Chapter 9

The next morning you sleep in, ignoring Rick’s texts and eventual calls out of resentment. Let him be the one kept waiting for once. On his third attempt, you heave yourself out of bed, silence the phone, and leave it on the floor. Back in the cot, you snuggle harder. As snug as one can be, at least, in scratchy cotton sheets with a lumpy pillow. Come to think of it, the pillow is scratchy too. It’s making your face itch.

As you’re drifting back to sleep, you hear footsteps out in the hallway. If someone knocks you’ll pretend to be asleep.  
Rick kicks in the door, flooding the room with light, and lunges, clapping a hand over your mouth before you can ask him what the hell he’s doing, before you can even sit up. The shock of seeing yourself had started to wear off over the past week. It’s back.

“What the fuck,” he hisses. “Why are you ignoring my calls?”

His proximity makes you blush: the soft hand over your mouth, the way he’s arched over you, one knee on the cot, balancing himself with his other hand on your chest. And what the hell is he wearing? You’d forgotten you owned that tank top and good _lord_ it comes down low.

He narrows his eyes, takes his hand off your mouth, and leans over. For one heart-stopping moment you think he’s going in for a kiss and you try desperately to ignore the pressure pulse that shoots straight through you. No good. Your cock stirs, and you shift in a way you hope is discreet.

He sniffs at your hair, and smirks. “You did it, didn’t you?”

You freeze. How could he know about your time in front of the mirror? Or the foray into his dick pic gallery?

“Fiiiiinally had to look.” He shakes his head; you swallow and glance towards your phone, where you had discarded it out of reach last night. “Had to take a-a-a little peek.”

You tamp down your knee-jerk reply: it isn’t little.

“Yeahhhhhh, you were starting to reek, there. Now you just smell like--” He inhales deeply. “-- satsuma and sexual repression.”

“Oh! Uhhhhh. No. Yes, right. I-- ahem--took a shower. Respectfully.”

“O-oh, you did, huh? Got clean, got all up in the taint but couldn’t be bothered to shave?”

You lift your hand to touch your jaw. That’s what was itchy. No wonder the family had been giving you strange looks, asking if you were okay, if you’d been sleeping enough.

“How did you get in here without being noticed?” You ask, keeping your voice low. “And how come it takes you so long to grow a beard? I-I mean, this isn’t even a beard, this is a five o’clock shadow. Or a six days shadow.”

“You got a problem with it? And I _told_ you, no conditioner, none of that floral shit. That hair is gonna be a greasy mess in twelve hours—“

“Yeah, okay.” You wave him off. “Have you made any progress?”

“No.” He waves off your waving-off.

“Nothing? At all?” The plaintive hitch in your voice doesn’t escape his notice.

“Not exactly like I’m swimming in free time.” He sneers. “Come on.”

He leads you through the house, making a detour to plunder Jerry’s liquor cabinet. You don’t even call him out on it, more concerned about getting your semi-erection to go down, and praying that it’s not visible. Down in the bunker he points you to the bathroom.

“Go. Fi-eeugh-x yourself.”

“Uhhhhh…”

“You don’t know how to shave? Jesus. Okay. Come. Sit.” 

The sink seems like a good perch, but he smacks your thigh. “Ow! Why are you talking to me like I’m a dog?”

“ _Lower._ Your stubby arms don’t reach _shit_ , by the way, I-I-I had to keep reusing— I’m on a rotation of the same three bowls and cups.”

“There’s a stepstool in the pantry.” You move to the edge of the bathtub. “And I do know how to shave, I’ve just never used a straight razor before.”

Rick works quickly, deft and sure. He envelops your face in a warm wet towel first, bids you pay attention, he’s only doing this for you once. But as he lathers the cake of soap, and brushes it onto your cheeks and chin and neck, he proceeds to distract you with chatter. 

“Y-you—are you sure you’re attached to this job? I can get you out of it with minimal bridges burnt, it’d be better for everyone.” 

“I’d really rather you no—“

“Quiet!” He grabs your hair with his free hand, yanking. “Chin up, d-don’t move.” He pulls one side of your face tight, scrapes stubble and lather. Wipes the blade on the discarded towel. 

It feels like being at the dentist. He keeps asking questions, and you’re unable to answer other than ‘mhmm’ in different intonations. Your heartrate picks up again. He picked that ridiculous shirt on purpose, he must have. 

At one point you let your eyes slip shut, because every time he pulls your skin tight he manages to tangle his fingers in your hair. The odd sensuality of it, the intimacy— they do you no favors. You can’t stop thinking about him, or those pictures, or your body’s reaction.

When you blink open again you find him looking at you quizzically.

How much does he know?

“Are you _done?_ ” You ask more acidly than you mean to, but it sounds just like him, and the deflection works.  
He straightens up, tosses the razor on the counter, and walks out. “Wash your face,” he calls from the hallway.

The rest of the day, he seems to find excuses to touch you. Affixing electrodes to your temples, chest, arms. When he remembers, he explains what he’s doing as he’s doing it, running tests, taking measurements. You understand none of it, and most of your questions are met with impatience. Still, he gives enough of an answer that you can start to pick up on certain things, and you finally ask a question that results in something other than an eye roll.

“Why do you think Jerry wasn’t affected in the accident?”

Rick purses his lips, midway through typing something on the keyboard. “Jerry.” He stares off into space, muttering ‘Jerry’ under his breath. “Awwww shit, dawg! Get ready for-- get your ass ready, get ready now. Exposition time!”

He drags you off the chair, talking a mile a minute, you catch something about the telepathic goo, and exposure levels and time, and the possibility of you dosing Jerry’s food with samples of it because even a moron like him would get suspicious if it was forced on him.

“Rick, hold on, wait a minute, just--” 

He leads you to the bar in what you think of as the Ikea room, and presses a neat whiskey into your hands. 

“I’m fine.” 

“Just drink it.” He grabs your wrist and holds up your hand in front of your face. “See? Tremors. You--eeeurgh-- need more alcohol. Don’t want you fucking up my tolerance.”

You toss back the drink, pour another one to sip on. “So? What’s so important about Jerry?”

Rick snorts. “Th-that’s a gimme, right? A set up, you’re setting me up. You want me to rail on Jerry, that insecure empty-validation needing fair weather sack of crap.”

“I mean, he is…” 

He won’t tell you what’s so important about Jerry. He does keep pouring you drinks, being unusually nice, engaging. 

Cordial. 

It clicks in your muddled thoughts that he’s charming you and getting you sloshed (which is a physical feat for this body, not to mention expensive). You’d like to know why. You want to know why he isn’t more focused on fixing this whole mess, and demand some answers about why he wore that shirt and what exactly he was trying to provoke when he texted you those pictures last night.

You ask none of that. 

“Rick?”

“Hmm?”

“Why can’t I keep that portal maker?” 

He swings his legs off the footrest, sitting up from a slouch. “What?”

“That—“ you belch, tasting excess liquor on your breath “— that thing you showed me with the green thingies where you walked through and then you put it— l-locked it in the safe and—“

“I know what it is.” He squints suspiciously. “W-w-w-why’re you asking?” 

You mirror his posture. Huge mistake. It makes the countless drinks you’ve had flood your system. A few hours have gone by at least, since you’ve been down here chatting. Must be close to dinner time now. “I’m hungry,” you announce.

“So order a pizza or something. Why are you asking about the portal gun?” He’s on his feet now, standing over you.  
Is he trying to be threatening, looming over you like that? Might help if he were wearing heels. The thought makes you giggle.

You bring your hand to your face, stroking the smooth skin. Nothing feels softer at the moment, it’s so soft, you have to tell him. “Ri-eeeugh-ck, this is… it feels so nice. Feels so…” 

“Cut that shit out!” He smacks your wrist down and leans in, bracing his hands on the arms of your chair. He gets right up close. His nose almost touches yours, and he smirks when he catches the incremental drop of your gaze. Sure, you just looked down his shirt, but technically it’s _your_ cleavage. Which doesn’t explain why you find it so interesting.

“If your family knows— if it’s something they expect you to have, I mean…” You slur through that, hoping your point comes across anyway. Summer and Morty have referenced it several times, your lack of it seems like a dangerous oversight, it could all end up— “bad.” You turn your head aside and burp. And back. You meet his eyes. Hold for too long. 

Kissing him crosses your alcohol-saturated mind. Just to see what it feels like. The thrill of it, the strangeness. The fact that were you both in your normal bodies you’d still want to do it. You could put your hands around his waist, pull him down so he’s straddling you. 

“Bed,” he commands suddenly.

It feels like the floor drops away. Yours or his? Your mind flashes to a lurid vision of him on top of you, riding you, rolling his hips, moaning as you press a thumb to his clit, because who knows better than you—

“Time to get your drunk ass to bed.” He waves a hand in front of your face as you stare blankly at him. 

Oh. Asshole. What right does he have to boss you around? Why won’t he order you to kiss him and other things? Your drunken mind gets angry so easily. “I’m not tired.”

“Yeah, cool, me neither. I have work to do.” He hauls you to your feet and shoves you in the direction of the door, with the added instruction: go sleep it off and be thankful you have no commitments in the morning. 

" _I’m so fucking drunk_ ,” you mumble. _So fucking drunk so fucking drunk so fucking drunk._ Press your cool hand to your forehead, knock your shoulder on the door jamb and swaying out into the hallway. 

Screw Rick. You don’t need him. You weave through the main room, veer towards one of the enticingly-lit tanks, intending to knock it over and smash it. 

Instead, you stumble and fall and decide that your clumsiness is a sign. Not worth it. Keep moving. You crawl to the ladder shaft. The coolness of the concrete floor centers you somewhat, grants you a brief lucidity through the drunken haze. 

You can do this without him. Everything will be fine, you’ll find a way, it’ll work out. Tomorrow. You struggle with the door, get through. The ladder presents a challenge. Maybe… the floor. 

Yes, the floor. What a nice place to sleep. Lay your head down. Fade out. 

And you dream. 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut incoming!

You dream you’re falling up.  
  
Up the ladder shaft, rungs flashing by, you can’t stabilize, can’t right yourself.  
  
Until you see Rick. Your free-fall is suspended. He comes to stand over you, with that strange portal thing in his hand, only it’s him in your body but you know it’s him. You’ve never seen your own face in a dream. You see it now. Must be him, and your subconscious accepts it. He points the portal maker at the ground, the green vortex opens and then you’re falling the other direction, perspective flips.  
  
Your heart seizes in panic, you struggle but can’t cry out. You land on your cot, alone.  
  
Blink and you’re back in your own room, your room in your house, the master bedroom where you sleep alone. You breathe out. In again, deeply, and out. Your pulse slows, you relax.  
  
You’re standing by the dresser in the corner. Rick is laid out on the bed in a skimpy tank top and panties, zoned out with his phone. His free hand plays absently the low part of the stomach. The concave dip between his hip bones, tracing arcs on the skin, pulling the shirt higher fold by fold.  
  
It’s oddly vivid for a dream. You feel like you’re there, out of your own body, yet with a visceral sense of what he’s experiencing, what he’s doing. His fingernails on the skin. His thoughts in the moment. Curiosity driven by boredom. He glances at the floral bedspread, and though you can’t read his expression, you register a sense of disdain.  
  
He doesn’t like the pattern.  
  
_Ugly_ , he thinks. _Too busy. Chrysanthemums AND peonies?_  
  
How strange, that you think you can hear him. ‘Rick’, you say. He heaves a great yawn without looking away from the screen, scratches his stomach.  
  
Louder. _Rick!_  
  
He wants a drink but is too lazy to get up. Beneath that, there seems to be more. Fainter, deeper thoughts which even if you could make out, you couldn’t comprehend. And besides, they’re too many too fast, and obscured by static. Other than that, nothing.  
  
So, he won’t know you’re here. He can’t detect your presence. you’re safe.  
  
You catch another flash of emotion from him. Astonishment.  
  
And following closely: delight. This body is extravagantly sensitive. Almost too responsive, and the potential for discovery intrigues him.  
  
He sets about testing it, ghosting his fingers up higher, tracing the ribs.  
  
The hem of the shirt is dangerously high; his touch follows, up the gentle swell of his breasts.  
  
Hesitation doesn’t cross his mind. He throws his phone aside and it lands with a _flump_ on the bedspread, whatever’s on the screen isn’t as interesting as the body he’s looking at. The fabric dragging across his erect nipples feels nice. Not wonderful. He pushes it up further, admiring his breasts again (throughout the day he often finds himself palming one or the other in a moment of absent contemplation; it helps him focus). He cups one, rolls the little bud between his fingers. This is not the white hot pull of need that he’s used to. This is languid, and generous if he gives it the proper attention.  
  
As arousal seeps into the edges of his consciousness, unease floods yours. You shouldn’t be watching something so intimate, but then again, what exactly _is_ the protocol for dream-spying on an old man who happens to be trapped in _your_ body? If that’s even what’s happening.  
  
Inexplicably the scene shifts once more, with no warning and just as quickly as before. The initial effect is disorienting but the new scene roots you in place. You’re transfixed, and the creeping doubt at whether you should be here or not is supplanted by base fascination.  
  
Rick is sitting on the wooden chair that goes with your desk, he’s pulled it out and positioned it in front of the full mirrored sliding closet doors. He’s perched on it oddly, left heel propped on the seat, the right on the rungs. Slouched, knees wide, pussy pink and glistening on full display. He’s lost the panties somewhere, the tank top is still on, but one strap droops off his shoulder. From behind him, you can see it all in the reflection.  
  
He has one of your toys in hand, a big blue dildo, shiny with lube. Not shy about size, then, though that shouldn’t come as a surprise.  
  
He tilts his hips, rubbing his labia with the head of it. A quiet hum issues from his throat, he likes the hint of desperation in it, the pitch, the lilt at the end that sounds a little like _please._  
  
Which he would never say, except for a little more of this.  
  
This need knifing through him, unfiltered, singular, glorious.  
  
He adjusts again, body thrumming with anticipation, so eager to know what this feels like, it’s all novel, so much to explore. Places the blunt tip at the opening, his gaze alternating between watching in the mirror and looking straight down. He pushes it in oh so slowly. Pauses.  
  
_‘Just the tip’_ amuses him briefly, but the low simmering of this female desire is insistent. Another inch, and oh yes, that stretch, that fullness. More of that.  
  
He plays with the angle, fucking into himself with measured strokes. Free hand at his clit, rubbing back and forth, different motions, unsure and clumsy at first until he finds what feels right. Little circles are best, his fingers slipping on the slick flesh, experimenting with pressure and speed.  
  
This is too good, he thinks, this is unfair. Compared to what he knows in his own body, which demands fast, hard pounding until it’s over. Male desire won’t be ignored.  
  
This wouldn’t either, but—shit, he could spend all day like this, walking around with a juicy wet cunt and soaked panties and no one would know except him, that’ll be something to try at work. He could invite himself over for dinner and sit there with this warmth in his belly, let it heat up, tug at him the whole time, a lovely weight in the pit of his stomach.  
  
His arousal in this bizarre dream, or vision, or whatever it is, laps at you. Like a tide, slowly at first, coming higher bit by bit, warning you each time it will eventually sweep you away. Your lucidity steals ambiguity from the moment, keeps it from being a true dream. And yet you are immersed in the moment, paralyzed, and all the fine detail of your surroundings is blurred, muted, distant and distorted, like you’re underwater.  
  
Except for Rick. He resolves in high focus, the only presence that matters.  
  
He lets himself moan. Oh, fuck that sounds good.  
  
Again.  
  
He always loves hearing these little sounds from whoever he’s fucking, so damn sexy when they can’t help themselves. Can he, maybe—? Draw it from himself.  
  
He switches his hold on the big fake cock, wants to feel more of it, deeper.  
  
There, right there. The girth of it is perfect like that, and if he presses on his clit at the same time... _Oh fuck oh fuckfuckfuck yes._ He bites his lip, the pleasure is too much to bear, he whines through it anyway.  
  
He can feel it building in him, coiling tighter, winding up to something spectacular. He clenches around the thick length inside him, didn’t mean to but oh he could get used to this. He’ll need to do this again, as soon as possible. Already planning for when and where and which toy to try next. How many times in a row can he cum? Could he find someone to eat him out? Can he get himself to squirt? All the idiocy and inconvenience of this fiasco might be worth it for this.  
  
He gasps, rolling his hips to the rhythm he’s made for himself, getting caught up in the pulsating drive as he fucks himself with the dildo. Watching the display in the mirror, nothing has ever looked better. Eyes hooded, skin flushed, fingers busy, the shaft of the toy disappearing and splitting him open, coming out shiny each time.  
  
A helpless cry wrenches from his throat, his whole body tensed and arched— and he crests.  
  
Bright, exquisite pleasure tears through him, unending waves of it. Spirals out to every nerve, every synapse firing, every breath another spark drawing it out. You feel it, secondhand, the sensation hardly dimmed. If anything it’s more intense, growing to strangle every rational thought. You want to do this to him, for him, _with_ him. Even if it means staying stuck a little longer.  
  
The initial shock-burst of his climax subsides. He rides the long sweet swell of it, luxuriates in it, weak and tingling and sated.  
  
Eventually he’s left there panting, his chest rising and falling, dewy with sweat. He removes the toy and lets it drop to the floor. His eyes slip closed, his breathing evens out. You’re still safe.  
  
But then he opens them again, flicks his gaze up and meets your eyes in the mirror. Your calm snaps, the facade of the dream starts to ripple and warp.  
  
_Wake up._  
  
Reality drops away, you feel yourself falling.  
  
He smiles.


	11. Chapter 11

Awake. You gasp, as if surfacing for air, and flail yourself off the bed in shock, landing hard on your elbow.

“Fuck!” You hiss at the pain, right yourself, clutching your arm. Damn bony old man body.

On your knees in the quiet dark room, you steady yourself with one hand on the scratchy green wool blanket of the cot. It’s made, badly. You’ve tried but can’t figure out how to replicate the neat hospital corners.

He saw you. Didn’t he? Had you imagined that brief locking of your eyes with his in the mirror? No. He saw you, that smile was a smirk, and he knew.

That’s the least of your problems at the moment, however. There’s tension in your body. Watching him did that to you.  
The dream vision left an impression, your body responds and you don’t have a say in how. Is this morning wood? Do men his age even get that? Could you ask him? No, no, and no. All that matters right now is that your cock is hard and thick in your pants. Arousal passed on to you from Rick, similar in its insistence.

You hardly think as you unbuckle your belt, quick and sure, flick the button open, unzip your fly. Push the material down, pull out your cock and balls.

Heavy and hot in your hand, not quite fully erect. The skin is incredibly smooth, a delight to touch, you huff out a breath, need to release some of the building heat.

The wrongness of this occurs to you again, but it’s no deterrent anymore. Not now. It spurs you on, heightens the precarious balance of your desire.

No, _need_. You can’t think. Can’t do anything, can’t continue your day or focus until you take care of this, and you don’t want to take a cold shower.

The urge to thrust against something is undeniable and overwhelming. Sinking your cock into some tight slick hole would be best. But all you have is your hand. It’ll have to suffice.

You have less idea of what you’re doing than you imagine he did in that dream. Doesn’t matter. You grip your shaft in your hand, give a few experimental pulls. His stupid long fingers make it awkward, dry palm is too rough. You spit in once, try it, not enough. Twice.

Better.

You risk a glance downward. It’s as big as it feels, bigger than you pictured, thick and red and veiny, leaking precum. You groan at the sight, at how good it feels to squeeze the ring of your thumb and forefinger each time they pass over the head.

You clench your fist in the woolen blanket, hand pumping your cock faster. Unbidden, you picture Rick again, flashing from what you’d just seen in the dream, to him on his knees, swirling his soft wet tongue around the head of your cock, then taking you in his mouth inch by inch, agonizingly slow, his eyes wide looking up at you. That image in itself spurs you on, but then you see his smirk again, in the mirror, goading you. Asking you why you’ve denied yourself for so long. 

You choke out a helpless sound. Too loud, whoever’s walking down the hallway (probably Jerry) will hear you, but you don’t care. The rough lust in your voice is too pleasing to silence.

You move with long, full strokes, hardly having to fantasize to get off, your bizarre attraction to this body is enough. Need to cum. That’s all, just once, then no more. You feel your balls tighten, transfer your hand from the blanket to hold them, squeeze a little.  
 _Yes. That’s it, there._ Close. You’re so close and yet you have to delay it, just a bit. You bite your lip, entire body taut, hunched, flushed with arousal as you watch your hands work. You slow your pace, squeezing the base around your balls too.

It’s too much. Your cock throbs, you can’t hold off any longer, you let go, fucking into your hand again, moan as everything stiffens.

The pretense of being quiet is all but abandoned, you groan from deep in your chest, intense pleasure bursting behind your eyelids. “Ohh _fffuck._ ” You gasp, release sweeps over you, you’re powerless in its tide, and hardly aware of anything except that you’re cumming, thick ropes of it arcing everywhere. Your pants, the carpet, the cot. Nearly as quickly as you peak, it’s over. Each stroke gradually slower and slicker, until it’s too sensitive to keep going. 

You sigh out a ragged breath, all your energy dissipating. It would be so nice to go back to sleep now, but your hands are sticky and there’s a mess on the carpet. The time it takes you to clean up, shower, and change clothes allows for more reflection than you really wanted, and the only place it leads you is back to your room, anyway. 

You shove aside your own strained justifications for what you just did, and explore the space with fresh interest. You can feel his presence here, a residual sense of it now that you know him, in the gadgets and boxes of junk, and crumpled dirty clothes. The walls are crowded with diagrams and photos, some string looped around pushpins connecting disparate ideas. Things you’ve looked at every day for almost two weeks, and still don’t understand, but you can see the organized chaos in it now. 

The revelation isn’t so much the contents but the comparison. The disorder here and in his workshop compared to the bunker. How many people have had the chance to make that observation? How many people have had this much access to his life? The thought is sobering. Rick Sanchez, the evasive next door curmudgeon. You know him better than you’ve known certain friends. Family members. Partners. 

You know his morning routine. You know his favorite characters, and, just by spending time around him, his opinions on a wide variety of topics. (Out of everything, he shares those the most freely.) You know, or can accurately guess, what his reactions will be in many situations. Fake it till you make it. And now that you’ve made it, you want more. That scares you, but doesn’t stop you from spending the better part of the day thoroughly going through his things. 

Before, you would have hesitated to snoop, or at least felt guilty about it. Now, not so much. You find a couple of shoe boxes full of military paraphernalia and mementos-- photographs of him as a younger man in fatigues, posing with a rifle over his shoulder. Another aspect of his life that would have remained a complete mystery to you. 

You should pull back. Should be careful. Too far in, and you’ll lose yourself, and you doubt he’ll have the same problem. And even when you do switch back (you have to hold out hope for that, otherwise you’ll have a nervous breakdown), what then? What’s next? How can you just go back to normal after all this? You’ll never be able to look him or his family in the eye again. 

This is tested with karmic flare; there’s a knock on the door and you open it to Summer and Morty.

Perfect. Being Rick is an exercise in mental acrobatics. Balancing what he would or wouldn’t say against your own personality, and the scales are never quite level.

“W-w-what is it, kids?” You address the wall behind them, still hung up on the ethics of your recent activity, and the presence of his grandkids isn’t helping. It was strange, and probably wrong, but what were you supposed to do, ask for permission? Which Rick would almost surely laugh at. 

_Rick, can I masturbate in your body?_

_Wh- y-y-you’re seriously asking me that? You need it in writing or something? Ok fine, here. I, Rick Sanchez, formally grant you permission to touch, fondle, and otherwise play with my penis and testicles. Try putting a finger up the ass too, I think you’ll like it better than the stick that’s up there now._

“Did you forget? Dad’s barbecuing tonight.” 

“Barbecue?!” You reply with perhaps too much enthusiasm. Anything to avert attention from the fact that you’d left wadded up tissues on the floor at the scene of the crime. 

“Did you clean up your room?” Morty peers around you.

“No. Let’s go eat before Jerry burns everything.” You step into the hallway and pull the door closed behind you.


	12. Chapter 12

To your dismay, the kids shadow you through the house and out into the backyard. As much as you wish you could be friendlier with them, Rick would berate you if he knew you were tarnishing his reputation by being nice. And anyway, you’re distracted and irritable. You recognize the signs of Rick’s addiction in your shaky hands and rising anxiety, and beeline for the coolers full of beverages, popping the top of a bottle of beer off on the edge of the picnic table.

Only after you take a long draught, half draining it, can you steady yourself enough to take in your surroundings. This isn’t just a family cookout. The whole block has turned out, and you recognize many neighbors who, as yourself, you’re on good terms with, but as Rick—

You belch as the couple from across the street, Marcia and Frank, come over to partake in refreshments. They give you a wide berth, as if you’re a dragon guarding its hoard, and you raise your beer in greeting.

Frank puts his arm around Marcia’s shoulders protectively, and they swerve towards Jerry instead. You roll your eyes and sit on the bench under the large umbrella, the only available shade. You slouch, letting your long limbs sprawl out. Rick should be here. At least, he should have been invited. You’re not sure you really want to encounter him, and certainly don’t want to address what happened last night, but just to have someone to talk to. He always has a story, an interesting observation, and, if nothing else, a crass joke.

It takes you an absent moment of casting around the yard for a tall, skinny man in a lab coat before you remember that’s wrong, after which you feel stupid, and give up.

Near you, the kids chatter along happily. Groups of neighbors stand around shielding their eyes from the sun and glancing towards the drink table apprehensively. Only a few brave approaching it (and you) and when they do, grab several sodas and drinks at once, then flee. Beth flits from cluster to cluster, disappearing back into the house whenever her wine glass gets too low. Jerry’s at the grill, comfortably smug about being the focus of the neighborhood’s appreciation. You’re close enough to overhear, and far enough not to be part of the conversation.

“These burgers are to die for, Jerry!”

“Well thank you, Frank, I appreciate that. You know the recipe used to be a family secret.”

“Used to?”

Jerry plates another round of overlooked meat and charred corn with a smug flourish; he’s clearly savoring having all these people hanging on to his every word. Despising him is one thing in which you are perfectly attuned to Rick’s feelings. It’s no stretch to pretend.

“See, my father in law, over there guarding the beer.”

“He lives with you full time?” Joan, from down the block, catches your eye and gives the sort of cheery wave one would make when they expected a scowl in return. You burp and turn away, though you can’t tune them out.

“...Too old and feeble to fend for himself, much less be the grill master. Anyway, at our last barbecue there was, shall we say, _an incident_...”

Morty and Summer can hear the jibes too, and pause their debate about the top ten Ball Fondlers episodes.

“Grandpa, are you really gonna let them talk about you like that?”

“Like _what_ , Summer? Wh-why don’t you shut up and drink your juice box?”

“Y-yeah, Summer, drink your juice! Haha, nice one, Rick!” Morty goes for a high five, which you return, limply.

“It’s not juice!” Says Summer hotly. “It’s sangria in a box! Mom said I could.”

“Oh, well I guess if she said you could—“ you finish your beer and pop another one. You haven’t had anything to eat or drink since last night, when you passed out in the bunker. And how _had_ you made it back to your own bed, anyway? That little detail had gotten lost in the shuffle, but it bears questioning. How much of your dream had been real, and if the answer is ‘all of it’, then why had Rick taken the time and effort to deliver you to bed?

“Meh. Grampa’s lost his swagger.” Summer finishes her sangria box, the straw making empty sucking sounds, then reaches for a beer. You almost try to stop her— she’s not twenty one!— but hold yourself in check. Rick wouldn’t care.

The kids move on to speculating about what’s wrong with you, and you sit unnaturally still, praying to some abstract concept of a deity (surely, Rick would not approve) that they’ll stop.

“...maybe he got dumped.”

“Did you get dumped?”

“Do you have arthritis?”

“Did you find another liver spot?”

“Did your portal gun break?”

“Is Dad kicking you out?”

“The nursing home? Cocoon Creek?”

You’re lost. You have no answers, and the questions the kids are asking are ones you’d like to ask Rick as well. He’d never mentioned anything about his dating life, or the threat of exile.

And lo! Your savior appears. Rick announces his arrival with a huge belch. “Who cares. Take a hike, kids, I-I gotta talk to-- your grandpa here.”

“Who are _you?_ ” Summer goes full sass and Rick turns on her.

“Sangria in a box with a straw? C-classy. Real fuckin high class there, I’m sure you’ll impress everyone with your prowess in drinking mildly alcoholic sugar water when you go waste four years partying to get a piece of paper.”

The kids are dumbstruck, frozen except for their eyes darting between you and Rick. But they settle on you. He stares at you too, as if to say ‘back me up here.’ You’ll have to mention something to him later about divine intervention.

“You heard the m— lady. Get lost, go inside, play video games, watch TV.”

That seems to assuage them, and it accomplishes Rick’s goal of getting them to leave. You barely notice when they go; Rick is more interesting. He’s selected a lightweight dress that flows around his curves in the warm breeze. You swallow thickly, looking him up and down. He stands directly in front of you, tilts his head and gives you a knowing smile.

Your pulse spikes, so you slouch further down, spreading your legs wide, and swig your beer. You refuse to let him intimidate you so easily, though you get flustered all the same. Who could have expected a seventy year old man to be such a brazen flirt? 

“Are you wearing heels?” You look down at his feet pointedly.

A blatant diversion seems like the best course of action, though you can already see the answer to your question: little strappy sandals you’d forgotten you owned. He strikes a pose with his hand on his hip. “This may come as a surprise but this isn’t my first time sluttin it up at a neighborhood barbecue.”

The spin he puts on that word is indecent. Unfairly suggestive, and it sends your mind spiraling off; as intriguing as it is to hear it in your real voice, you’d really like to hear it in his. The roughness, the lust you now know, and it’s all too easy to imagine being back in your own bodies, you bent over a desk and him behind you, growling obscenities in your ear. Drawing the hem of your skirt up, pulling your panties to the side, bracing himself one handed on the desk as he aligns the thick head of his cock to your slick pussy and starts to fill you inch by inch. “Right,” you mutter, as there’s really nothing else to say.

He’s got you on your back foot, it would only take a tap to send you reeling.

“So,” he begins, “how’d you sleep?”

Your heart drops. And there it is. Nothing innocuous about that question, not when it conjures a vision of him in ecstasy. You manage to hang onto your beer, somehow, but otherwise remain unnaturally still. Breathing becomes an afterthought and you’re torn between wanting to flee his presence forever and kiss him.

“Uhmm. Fine?” And there goes your voice cracking, too. “Did, um. Did you? Sleep well?” He’s not wearing a bra, you can see his nipples peaked through the thin fabric. You want to surge to your feet, and sweep him away, tangle your fingers in his hair, bear him to the grass. Rip the neckline of that dress down, expose his tits in the sunlight, suck on them, hear him moan in surprise and delight, who the fuck cares if all the neighbors are watching? You cross your legs, wrench your gaze away since he licks his lips instead of answering you right away.

“...I slept juuuuuuust fine.”

Yeah, right. Like Princess Aurora, probably. Silence stretches out awkwardly until he lures your attention back to him.

“How about this morning, did you do anything fun?”

You cast around the backyard, looking for a distraction, any way out. “Uh…” but the best you’d be able to do is with that portal gun he won’t let you have. You might be able to vault the gate, but there are too many people. You drink instead, starting to realize, or at least come to understand, why he uses it as a crutch. Whenever you don’t want to do something, drink! Whenever you’re at a loss for words, drink! It’s too easy.

But even under his expectant gaze, it’s not enough, and you’re compelled to try. You start one excuse after another, stuttering, until he rescues you, in his own way, sinking down next to you.

“Ahhhh, cut the shit. I know what you did. Had to take it for a test drive, huh? Had to test out the equipment.”

You nod slowly, mortified. The jig is up and he’s sitting awfully close. You scoot away from him, at the same time reprimanding yourself for that twitch you felt in your trousers, and ask how he knows.

“G-got a cybernetic dick, what’d you think? Got all these sensors in it and shit.”

“What about _you_ ,” you accuse him. “What did _you_ do last night?”

That earns you another grin, a salacious one. It makes your heart flutter. This attraction to him is a dangerous entity, taking on its own life, winding itself into your consciousness.

“I’ll give you three guesses,” says Rick. “I-i-if you really take three tries I’ll be disappointed. It’ll mean you’re stupider than I thought you were.”

You bite your lower lip and stall by going to get another beer, and bringing him one as well. “I’m not guessing,” you tell him petulantly, when he reminds you that if you don’t even try you’re guaranteed to be wrong.

“No answer isn’t wrong, it’s the just the absence of an answer. And BESIDES,” you talk over him when he starts to interrupt because now you’re _doubly_ wrong. “I bet you did the same thing as me.”

He snorts. “Daaaaaamn right. A-a-and guess what, it felt--” he takes a deep breath, leans in close, and puts his hand on your jaw, turning your face to his. 

You wait a moment too long before you’re able to reply, hoarsely, “I know how it feels.”

He gives a low, satisfied hum at your reaction. “And y-you bet your ass I didn’t— wasn’t gonna wait a week to try it out. I don’t have time for that shit. I don’t have time to worry about whether it’s right or not. Situations like this, you just… grab what you can—“ he winces at the double entendre, and forges on “—and don’t worry about it.”

He may have a point there.

“So how did you know?”

“Cybernetic dick,” he says. “I told you.”

“Yeah, but what does that mean? You said it has sensors. What is it sensing?”

He takes his phone out of his purse (which, you note, he selected with no regard as to matching the colors in the the dress) and bids you: “check it.”

You lean in, trying to see what he’s tapping on. “Rick, is that an app? What kind of sensors?”

“Biometric. Blood pressure. GPS. I think the newest chip I put in there has WiFi and Bluetooth capability.” He pauses to clear his throat. “Real time measurements of length and girth.” 

The sudden burst of understanding is wildly unpleasant. You surge to your feet, just as you had imagined, but in order to snatch the phone from his hands. He cocks an eyebrow at you as he taps one last time on the screen before you take it. Instantly you feel a tightening in your trousers.

“Oh Jesus FUCK! Rick—“ people turn to look, you lower your voice to an urgent, angry hiss. “Make it go down!”

“You’re holding the controls, baby.”

“Don’t. Call me that.” You look down at the phone in your hand. _Your_ phone, a week ago, though he’s made it his; it has a new case, and the background and lock screen are photos of a cat you don’t recognize, sprawled out on your sofa. “ _Fapchat?_ ” You seethe. 

“Snapchat for those with… enhancements.”

You sit down again. Your finger hovers over the app icon, ready to hold and delete.

“You’ve been spying on me. I can’t--” you stop short. Actually, you can believe it, should have expected it from a man whose inflated sense of entitlement is near equal to his massive ego and who cares if it all stems from unmatched genius? You want to throttle him. You want to slap him, hold him down and punch him. Your mind plays through scenarios all involving the infliction of bodily harm, which you tell him. “And the only reason I’m not laying you out is because that’s my body, and I want it back in the condition you took it.”

Even as you say that, you know that whatever chance you had of making it through all this unscathed is expired.

“If I delete this, it’s not gonna, like, trigger an explosion, or anything, right?”

“And blow my own dick off? Nooooo thanks.”

The fact that he’s so blithe about the whole thing is perhaps the most infuriating aspect. You delete the app, aware that he can just download it again, but the petty satisfaction is worth it. After that, the only thing left to do is storm away, and you do it with flair, cutting a swath through the crowd and slapping a plate full of hotdogs out of Jerry’s hands. 

“Hey, Rick, what the hell!” 

You don’t stop. You have to get away from Rick, from the craziness, from your own twisting, confused feelings. There’s arousal in good measure, the seductive allure of his personality has that effect on you whether you like it or not. Add in anger, embarrassment, shock, betrayal. 

You throw open the sliding glass door. You’d started to get comfortable. That’s the root of the problem. You’d started to like him because you thought you knew him. You’d allowed yourself to fantasize, to imagine a future, a way out of this where things go back to normal, without the two of you staying tangled up in each other’s lives. You can see now that it won’t be possible. The knot will only tighten as time passes, until it becomes impossible to untie, and must be cut apart, thread by thread. 

Careening through the house, you’re at loose ends as to where you want to end up. Your room is an obvious choice, though unappealing. To dim and cramped, and you’ve spent too much time there recently. Garage it is, then, maybe you can take a walk, or borrow a car and drive somewhere. 

As you blindly turn a corner you plow into Summer. Your response: a reflexive apology. “Oh shit, sorry, excuse me.” And make to do the awkward left right left dance. 

Summer stands her ground. She tilts her head, regarding you keenly, (you swear you’ve seen that exact mannerism in Rick,) and states her conclusion. "You're not my grandpa."


	13. Chapter 13

_"You're not my grandpa."_

"Wh-what? Of course I'm..." Your voice catches, your mouth is suddenly much too dry.

She interrupts you. "No. I don't need to hear you try to deny it, thanks. You're not."

_Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit fuck and damn._ That can’t be the only thing. On the one hand, you’re about to panic, on the other, it’s sort of a relief. In the end, resignation wins out, her candor is freeing and a surreal sense of calm takes over; you let your shoulders slump, wipe the drool from your lower lip. "How'd you know?"

"Well, for one, what you just did."

"What? Admitting it?"

"Wiping your mouth. Grandpa Rick doesn't care that he drools, I don't think he even notices it."

You shush her and pull her into the garage where you’re less likely to be overhead. Once secure, you drop the stutter and ask, “what else?”

“Uhhh, everything? You’ve been acting weird, it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

You nod, reach for your flask from the inner pocket of your lab coat. That isn’t part of the act. You’re buzzed but need something stronger. The barrage of revelations this afternoon had left you first furious, then shocked, shaky and finally, now, resigned. You lean against the washing machine, take a drink, the liquor burns going down. It burns less a second time.

Summer is staring at you, with a quirked eyebrow. Again, she reminds you of Rick, more than any other member of the family.

“What?”

“You gonna share?”

“Uhhh. No?” You belch. “You’re seventeen, right? Your mother can give you alcohol, that’s her choice. I’m not— no.”

She shrugs. “Okay. I’ll just tell my parents that a stranger hijacked an old man’s body and has been pretending to be him while taking advantage of a suburban family.”

You hand over the flask.

Summer wipes the opening, takes a swig, and tries to mask her expression of distaste at the strong liquor.

“Alright there?”

She rolls her eyes. “Who _are_ you, anyway?”

“You aren’t more concerned about what happened to your grandfather?”

“Oh, grandpa Rick is fine. He’ll always be fine.”

True, he seems to have taken this entire ordeal in stride, especially compared to your own missteps and turmoil. Although he has the advantage of living alone. You could point it out to the teenager, but don’t want to expose yourself to further unproductive sarcasm. She takes another drink, after which you motion for it back. Likely Rick won’t have to endure any similar confessions, not least because you’ve cautioned him against even contacting your family.

“I’m your neighbor. Next door. Rick and I— there was some weird accident with one of his experiments, we switched bodies.”

Summer seems more intrigued by the scandalous gossip aspect of the story than the mystery of science gone wrong. She pries for your real name, for any salacious details she can think of, until you get fed up, or rather put on the spot. There are parts of this you _really_ can’t tell her.

“Look, why don’t you just ask Rick? He’s probably still out there.”

“So you don’t have a way to change back?”

“Nope. Rick’s been working on it but no luck so far.”

“And no one else knows?”

“No? I haven’t told anyone, and I doubt Rick’s pride would survive if he told anyone either.” Then you add, “he maaaaybe sorta caused the accident in the first place.”

She nods sagely. “Weirder things have happened.”

It’s no stretch of the imagination to believe her, when it comes to Rick. “So, really. How’d you know? What else was it, what made you suspicious?”

“No portal gun, you’ve been ignoring Morty, you don’t drive or fly anywhere. Oh, and you sounded way too excited earlier about barbecue. Rick won’t touch anything my dad makes, it’s a whole thing, like he’s paranoid about getting poisoned. Honestly I wasn’t sure because of the drinking, and you’re mean to my dad, but everything else. I mean, Morty told me you didn’t even know about Loggins’ beef with Atilla Starwar over the Punch Clan storyline.”

You groan.

You’d tried with that show, really, but there was just too much of it, and some of the bizarre, convoluted storylines hit a bit too close to home to be enjoyable. There is one more thing you need to address. “Are you going to tell anyone?” What’s it going to cost you, basically. She has the upper hand, and seems perfectly willing to extort you. Buy her and her friends booze? Look the other way when she sneaks in after curfew? Chauffeur her to raves and college parties?

Summer’s price is not steep, however.

“No. If my parents knew it would only give them another reason to kick him out, and I’d rather have grandpa Rick around than my dad.”

Yikes. Rick should really be the one dealing with his own family drama, though you get the impression than he’s happy for the opportunity to avoid it. You smile at her, racking your brain for some way it would sound natural for Rick to say ‘thank you’.  
Once again, Summer is a step ahead of you. “Y’know it’s totally weird seeing my grandpa’s face like that.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. Relaxed? Not frowning as much? And, like, being nice.”

“Rick can be… pleasant?” You search for the right word to describe it, while also wondering where this impulse to defend him is coming from.

Summer recoils. “ohmygod. GROSS. Are you hooking up with him?”

“What? No!”

“Ugh! You totally are! He’s my GRANDPA, you perv!”

“I’m not! Stop assuming things!”

Eventually you get her to calm down, reassuring her that the idea that you’d hook up with him, though you’d entertained it privately not twenty minutes earlier, is completely ridiculous.

“Fine.” She crosses her arms and you, against your better judgement, proffer your flask again as a peace offering.

She accepts it, and comments after drinking: “Rick doesn’t share liquor. Just so you know.”

You belch.

It’s the only acceptable response, and they’re starting to come easy. Plus, the alcohol is starting to take effect, and this is the first real conversation you’ve had with her. “You know Rick really cares about you and Morty—“

Summer rolls her eyes.

“—he really does,” you insist. “He does a shitty job of showing it most of the time, but he does.”

“If he does a shitty job, then what’s the point? I mean, if he decides to give a shit one out of every hundred times that seems like selective caring to me. That’s convenience.”

“Well maybe he doesn’t always _say_ it, but, I’m sure…”

“Oh, you’re sure? What, are you in love with him or something? Whatever, It doesn’t matter anyway. Rick is Rick, I’ve accepted that.” She stops mid-rant, looking stricken. “You’ve known him for what, a month?”

Two weeks, almost. “I’ve been your neighbor for three years.”

“Whatever. Just--” She lifts her chin, composing herself, though her eyes are bright. “You can’t tell Morty. You’d better keep being nice to him, and don’t tell him.”

“O-Okay.”

Having secured your agreement, she turns on her heel, and shuts you alone in the garage.


End file.
